


1933

by TheLoonWatches



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1933, Gen, No Romance, if you couldn't tell already, this is before he's dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoonWatches/pseuds/TheLoonWatches
Summary: Alastor meets a lonely girl at a party.
Relationships: Alastor & original character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1933

Alastor always prided himself with finding the hidden truth, the missing puzzle piece, the passion of human suffering. It captivated him, caressed his brain and left him obsessed.

So that’s why he found his current topic so interesting. 

The new neighbors - the Bukes, he believed - decided to introduce themselves by hosting a house party, a rarity these days, complete with fruit, meats, cakes, and a wide variety of beverages. Many well-off people came by, searching for a sophisticated change in the mundane of life.

Bodies milled about, chatting and laughing, talking nonsense. All generally having a content time, and leaving Alastor completely bored.

That is, until he spotted the girl.

She was maybe 15, 16; strange, since there were no other children here. Dressed in a fine gown, burgundy with a black belt, collar, and hems, and shiny black heels. The blonde little thing sat at the top at the banister landing, legs dangling through the balusters and over the edge. Her hands gripped two balusters like a criminal in jail, crying he didn’t do it.

What he found most interesting was her face, though. Her mouth was set in something of a melancholy pinch, as her eyes roamed over the crowd, watching and waiting, like a green-eyed calico. But the star of the show was her unfortunate nose. Something happened to that pretty face, for the bridge of her nose was bent dramatically to the left, then it curved back into place at her nostrils.

What a shame, a pretty face ruined by an unfortunate accident.

Pure curiosity took hold, and he let it guide him.

It seemed she was content to sit there the entire evening, then all through the night into the morning, so he took his time. He meandered and shared a quick word or two.

He spotted the hosts of the party, a serious lot. Thomas Buke was a big man, tall and a brunette, commanding for attention. He reminded Alastor of a proud buck, king of the woods. That is, until, he is shot down with a golden bullet.

His wife, Daisy Buke, was a staple of her name, skinny and blonde and people loved to gravitate toward her. Her voice was a sweet perfume, and charmed anyone who came across it. It would be simply delicious to pluck her pretty head off.

He was careful to step on the side of the stairs, where the boards were nailed in, not to make a sound.

But, alas, his silence was in vain, as the girl was staring at him as he made it to the second landing.

Alastor smiled, and quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, I didn’t expect to find a sneaky cat up here.”

The girl quirked the mirrored eyebrow back at him. “A cat? I think I’m more of a bird than anything.”

Alastor’s smile widened.  _ Touche, miss, touche.  _ “And what type of bird would that be, dear?”

The girl’s eye spied him, hesitant. It seemed that they both knew that she fell into her own trap, but she gave it thought and answered, “Um, I would think a . . . canary.”

Alastor tilted his head. “From a cat to the prey of a cat, hmm. Now, why would that be?”

The girl blanched, and glanced around. Alastor’s foot tapped twice, feigning patience.

“Well, I, um . . . .” The blonde little fool’s eyes found their way back to him, and he knew the truth of her hesitance through her lie. “They’re rather pretty, always happy and singing.”

And then she smiled. A small thing; shy and unused and partially fake. 

He nodded, hummed an approval, then stroked his chin with one finger. “As for myself, I think I would be a . . . turkey.”

It was the girl’s turn to tilt her head, though her face more bemused. “A turkey? Why?”

“Well, a turkey is quite the bird of the nation, don’t you agree? Demands attention, and cares for nothing. The late Benjamin Franklin himself wished to have the creature be the national symbol, since it never blanched from a fight. But the American bald eagle was voted in favor over the poor turkey. Bald eagles, despite their proud demeanor, can and will be scared away by any other bird that gives them trouble; such as, say, a canary?”

Alastor gestured vaguely back to the girl, where her mouth curled at the edges, subtly.

The girl hummed, and said, “If I were any passerby, I would take you for a . . . killdeer.”

His eyebrow quirked again. “A killdeer? Whatever the reason?”

The girl’s right hand rose to her face and her fingers gingerly pet the bent pipe of her nose. “Because both you and a killdeer have a shrill voice.”

And with that, a sharp, loud laugh escaped his throat. “Ha!”  _ What is this? Wit? Humor? _

The girl had grinned, a genuine grin! Something fast and as sweet as a rose; But it just as quickly shriveled up in the sun.

“Forgive me, that was rude.”

“Oh, but rudeness is the salt in the bread of life, my dear. It controls the egos of arrogant yeast!”

But, for whatever reason, she didn’t respond to his metaphor.

A shame, he waited so long to use that analogy.

He quickly changed tactics.“This is quite the party, hm? Though, I expected a bit more.”

He acted out a sigh and a sad gaze over the crowd, pretending to (poorly) hide disappointment in his eyes.

The girl nodded. “So did I.” And looked back to the ground floor.

“Now, what is a young thing like you doing hiding in the rafters? I would expect you to be among the people, laughing and jovial. Maybe even out on the Orleans streets, if you are a rebellious thing.” He walked over next to her, and leaned to rest his forearms on the railing.

“I thought I would, too. But this is my first party, what do I do with myself?”

Alastor noticed her right hand reach up and stroke the bridge of her nose again, where the imperfection resided.

“Oh, you are simply in the wrong place, my dear. This party is a bore compared to the balls I attended back in the day. Dancing and jazz and nothing but the best of wines! But we’re left with this, a sad imitation.” Alastor’s eyes narrowed at these party-goers faking happiness, and his smile curved into a smirk. “I would expect nothing less than a hundred men lining up just for a single dance with you! Those parties never left a single soul unsatisfied.”

He sighed, wistfully, and rested his chin on his fingers. A decade, long gone. “Those were the days. . . .”

The girl hummed, and turned her head up to squint at his face, suspicious.

What she was suspicious of, though, was a mystery. And that mystery pecked at his heart, knowing that he wanted to know, know, know.

After a moment, she held her hand up to him. “Pammy. Pammy Buke.”

“Oh, the daughter of the hosts? Well, I should have known! You are the spitting image of your mother!” Alastor grasped her hand, and shook it with vigor. She smiled subconsciously.

“Thank you. It’s not often I’m told that.” Then she frowned again, and stared at his face, without letting go of his hand. “Why are you still here if you think this party is a bore?”

Jumping right into the hard questions, hm? “I’m afraid silence is much more deadly to this man than any boring party.” He shook his hand out of her grip, and he pulled the sleeve back into place. “My, if I ever were to go deaf, I’d shoot myself on the spot! Besides, the food is free here!”

Pammy scoffed, but smiled her small smile all the same.

“One of the maids says that jazz is the devil’s music, you know.” Pammy looked back over the crowd, her hand back to stroking her nose. She imitated the maid’s high-pitched voice, “‘I will quicker quit and live in a box than listen to that hellish noise!’ She even made a point of not doing any of the laundry for two days, so we only get to listen to jazz when it’s her day off.”

Alastor laughed. “Oh, but it is the devil’s music! Swing, ah! Such devil worship! Enjoying yourself with fancy footwork? Oh, crucify me now! The inhumanity!”

He made a show of swooning, hand to his forehead, which stole a chuckle out of her throat.

And that laugh would haunt him every time he crawled out of sleep.

“Pammy, darling!”

Pammy responded to her name being called, and whatever was left of her joy was hidden away, lock and key.

Alastor searched for the source, and wasn’t surprised to see the girl’s mother, Daisy, staring up.

“Yes, mother?”

Daisy beckoned her daughter with a careless wave. “Come down here, please! These guests want to meet you!” 

“Of course they do,” Pammy murmured, careful to let no one hear, but Alastor heard all the same. 

The girl extracted her legs from the balusters and stood. “Goodbye, sir. It was nice meeting you.”

Alastor scoffed. “You say that as if walking to your own funeral.” But he bowed all the same, deep and with a twirling of his hand at his chest. “Goodbye, miss Pammy. I pray your hands do not fall off from all your admirers shaking them.”

She sniffed, but in an amused manner.

Pammy stepped aside and walked past him, down the stairs and into the ocean of humans.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I should continue or not. I do have my own headcanon of how Alastor died, but it would be a miracle if mine was "exactly" how it goes down. That would be awesome, though. 
> 
> Please review.


End file.
